Kiss and Tell
by paperbkryter
Summary: Rosie decides Sam may need a little encouragement.


Mugs, mugs, mugs, everywhere she looked there were mugs. Some were cracked, some were chipped, some were discolored with age and some were - just nasty. Where had they been hiding, in some dark corner while their dregs grew unspeakable horrors? How did they get overlooked.

Rosie wrinkled her nose. "Unspeakable horrors and smells," she intoned gravely and added the cup in her hand to the growing pile she would soon be discarding. It wasn't that patrons would be all that particular, those well into their cups would not care if a cracked mug was slowly dampening their trousers as they drank, but Rosie had her pride.

Had she the collateral she would replace all the stoneware with fine pewter and be done with it. Pride did not barter well, but ale did, and Rosie's ale was a fair trade for the production of a few new mugs. Stoneware it had always been and would so be into the future, unless her station made some sort of radical change.

She tossed another mug over her shoulder as a shadow darkened the pub's door.

"Closed!" she sang, and expected the shadow to go on its way. "Come back when the sun's lower. Ye can't be that desperate."

The shadow did not go away. Instead it came down the steps and into the room where it became recognizable.

"Oh, it's you."

Rosie could not help her disappointment, because she had been waiting for many long years now, for a particular person to announce his intentions. That he repeatedly did not announce his intentions and thus left her to be pursued by those she considered far less worthy of her attentions, lent to her a great deal of frustration. Lately she'd had him possessing many of her idle thoughts. Idle thoughts had turned into idle daydreams which included sonnets and flowers which would then cumulate into a visit to the parson.

Sonnets. Rosie chuckled. Now that was a daydream because Samwise Gamgee could barely stammer out a "good-morning" in her presence, let alone recite poetry.

Still, it was a nice thought, and she was terribly disappointed that it was not Sam interrupting her mug sorting in order to sing praise to her feminine graces and propose on the spot.

Instead she found herself nose to nose with Frodo Baggins, who was covered in dust and smelled of hay and sunshine.

"Rosie, I'm parched."

"And we are cloooooosed," she replied, speaking very slowly as one would to a foreigner or an elder half deaf and slightly scrambled in the brains. "See, el, oh...." Abruptly she stopped, puzzling out the spelling.

"Ess," Frodo prompted.

Rosie scowled.

Show-off. Just because somebody could spell....

"However it's spelled - you'll have to come back later. The taps are dry and no amount of grinning will get you anything attall."

The smile he'd been affecting, vanished immediately. "You're a hard woman."

They stared at each other sternly, and it was Rosie who broke first, turning her head away slightly to hide her smile. Frodo chuckled as she moved away to pour him a drink.

He took it gratefully, sipping the frothy ale with an air of contentment. Rosie crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him carefully. They were not particularly close, but when you grew up with someone, ties were made. There were a lot of close ties among the residents of Hobbiton, and when Rosie considered the fact Frodo was dear to her Sam, she could not deny her own affections. Then there was that little bit of history between them.

"Where have you been?" she asked, fingering his dusty jacket. "You're a sight!"

"Nowhere and back," he said. The lightness was forced. It did not reach his eyes, and he lowered them to hide it. When he looked up again the shadows were gone. "Went fishing."

"I know a lie, Frodo Baggins, don't be begging a drink and paying in tales. You followed the border road. Tis its dust on your shoulders."

"I did for a little way, not far."

Tossing her head, Rosie turned away from him, going back to the bar where she resumed her sorting. Frodo sank into a chair with a little sigh.

"Not far at all," he said softly.

Rosie's hand paused as she removed a mug from a small stack for perusal. Her fingers shook a little as she flicked a bit of flaking paint from the rim of the vessel. It was something in his tone that alarmed her, and for all that she did care for him it was not Frodo for whom she was most concerned. She examined, somewhat distractedly, two more mugs before letting her gaze slide back to her visitor. He sat very still, idly rubbing one shoulder. His eyes were turned toward the bright sunshine outside the open door.

"Do you remember," she said lightly. "The kiss you stole from me when we were small?"

Frodo started, as if he'd forgotten her presence there. He craned his head back to look at her, and she returned his gaze with a coy look. Blue eyes narrowed as he regarded her warily.

"Behind the mill," he said. "And it wasn't that long ago." A blush rose to his cheeks. "I remember."

"Well," Rosie said, raising her chin. "I want it back."

There was, as she expected, a significant pause as he tried to figure out just how she thought he would return a stolen kiss, and why. The expression on his face was comical. It pleased her to see him so topsy-turvy. He'd been far too serious of late.

"Give...give it back?"

"Hmm-hmm." She sang a little under her breath and took up a cloth to clean a mug that was to be returned to the "keep" pile. The chair Frodo was sitting in scraped against the floor as he got up and came back to the bar. Rosie smiled at him.

"And how," he asked, leaning toward her. "Am I to do that?"

"Haven't quite figured it out yet, but I'll let you know when I do."

He squinted with one eye and scratched his head. "So I'm now in your debt? I owe you a kiss."

Rosie held up a finger. "Ah, a return of a kiss. Let us make it clear that there won't be more actual kissing involved." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't want there to be any misunderstandings, you see."

"You've really confused me. Was that the point?"

"No. I just want my kiss back."

"Why?"

"I just do."

"There has to be a reason."

Rosie tossed her curls. "Does there have to be a reason for everything?"

That drew out the shadows again. "No," he said quietly. "I think some things just are, and you have to accept them whether you want to or not." There was a flicker of something in his eyes as he again shook it off. "But I don't believe that this is an idle request. The return of a stolen kiss is something significant."

"I'd like to give it to someone else," Rosie said. "A more...respectable, hobbit."

"Oh, so that's it," Frodo laughed. "I should have known. It's the dust on my jacket."

"And the wanderlust in your eyes." Waggling a finger at him, Rosie said sternly: "The Baggins' have developed a most unfortunate habit of hieing themselves off on adventures. I shan't have my kiss toted off to some far away place again, Frodo, so you just give it back."

He looked her in the eye, which, Rosie realized, not many people did. It was very - unhobbitish - in her experience anyway. Of course Frodo Baggins listed elves, and men, and who knew what else as former associates. That in itself could skew one's behavior out of its proper alignment. Somewhere along the way he'd developed a knife's edged acuity as well.

Frodo's voice was very soft, and his smile was very sweet. "Rosie," he said gravely. He placed one hand on his heart. "On my honor, I will gladly see to it that your kiss never again leaves the Shire - at least not without your permission."

Rosie struggled to keep her face from breaking out into a reflection of his silly grin. "It's very important to me."

"Is it?"

"Truly."

"Interesting."

"How so?"

"I think," Frodo said. "No, I know it has been rather homesick. Not, mind you, that I've been at all dissatisfied with its company myself but...." He shrugged. "I get the impression it might just come back on its own. Had its fill of adventuring I think, that kiss."

"Really?" Rosie said breathlessly. Her face felt warm, and stretched. It was stretched - into a broad smile. Her suspicions had been correct all along. "You'll make sure, Frodo, that it knows it is welcome to come home any time it likes, won't you?"

"To a warm reception?"

"The warmest."

He nodded, and his smile grew a bit wistful, a bit sad. Some sudden urge drove Rosie to clutch at him, reaching out to grasp his hand before he moved too far away from her. It was as if she'd been stricken by a bit of foresight she could not comprehend, something that made her think he was fading away. It was his left hand, scarred and mangled and frightening. It was cold, but she held it fast.

Frodo frowned. "What is it?"

Rosie shook her head. "I just...." Her brows dipped. "You...are you well, Frodo?"

There was a long pause, she could see him struggling with the notion of making some sort of confessional, and if truth be told, she wasn't sure she really wanted to know of it. She let go of his hand, and he let it fall. He did not, Rosie noted, look at it.

Instead he looked at her, and he smiled, and the light she'd seen in his eyes that day behind the mill when the birds were singing and the sun shone bright, was there once again.

"I'm fine, Rosie. Better now than before I had the pleasure of your company." He sketched a little bow, and she felt the heaviness leave her chest.

"Good."

He winked as he ducked back out the door. "But I think Sam's going to be even finer!"

Rosie laughed as she heard him let out a whoop on the way down the path, and then sighed as she touched her hand to her cheek. It was warm. The memory of a kiss. She rested it in her palm, but soon found her thoughts turning away from the past and on toward the future.

"Mrs. Gamgee."

She sighed wistfully.

"We'll have pressed linen napkins and pewter mugs." This was said with a small scowl toward a mug with an ugly crack in the bottom, and with a snort of derision, she went back to her work. 


End file.
